


What You Do For King and Country

by Magnetism_bind



Category: Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy (2011)
Genre: Dubious Consent, Emotional Manipulation, Fingerfucking, Minor Violence, Wall Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-13
Updated: 2012-04-13
Packaged: 2017-11-03 13:46:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,573
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/381980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Magnetism_bind/pseuds/Magnetism_bind
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ricki Tarr goes to visit Peter Guillam in his flat.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What You Do For King and Country

Ricki doesn't take kindly to being taken in hand by Peter Guillam. He's taken enough of Mr. Guillam's high-handed ways over the years, and now...Now he's heading back to Paris. Oh yes, he'll do that, he'll go to Paris and do what they want. As long as they help him find Irina, he'll play along.

But first, he has an appointment with Mr. Guillam.

The streets of London are mostly empty this time of night. The sky looks like rain. It doesn't take long to reach the building Guillam lives in. His flat is dark and quiet with an air of being left undisturbed for several days. Ricki takes inventory of the few rooms quickly out of habit. The bed's unmade which surprises him for some reason. Guillam has always struck him as the fastidious type. The type who would never get his hands dirty. Save apparently on Ricki.

His jaw still aches despite it being days later. Ricki runs his fingers over it gingerly while opening the ice box. There's little there, and he closes it again. At last he finds a bottle of scotch in a cupboard. That will do. He pours himself a drink, adds ice, and goes out to the main room. Guillam has a row of records against the wall. Tarr traces his fingertips over them, amused at the man's taste. There are books, leather-bound of course. Worth a fortune no doubt.

He settles into a corner with his Scotch, waiting for Guillam to return.

* * *

Peter Guillam has had a very trying day. The last thing he needs is to find Ricki Tarr waiting for him in his flat, drinking his scotch.

"Get out." He says shortly, stripping off his coat. He shakes it slightly before hanging it up. His hair is damp from the evening rain. He doesn't want to see Tarr tonight. The man is simply a reminder of the whole bloody mess. His fingers tremble slightly when he loosens his tie. Even now he can't believe what he's done. What he did...and what he thought. The very sight of Tarr makes him sick with anxiety and frustration. The risk he took...He did it for Smiley of course. Only for Smiley, but it doesn't take away the sick feeling in his gut. The knowledge of what would happen if his theft were to be discovered. Then it wouldn't matter who he had done it for.

“Is that any way to treat a guest?” Tarr leans back against the doorway, eyeing him insolently. He takes a sip of Peter's scotch: it's obvious that he's already had a few.

“An intruder. Hardly a guest,” Peter sneers, tossing his tie on the table. He's tired and he wants to go to bed. He doesn't want to deal with this, doesn't want to deal with Tarr. It's all closing in, and he needs sleep before he can face tomorrow and what it will bring.

“An intruder.” Tarr repeats, staring down at the glass in his hand. “No, an intruder would just take what they wanted.”

Peter's patience is gone. “And what is it that you want?”

Tarr glares at him then, the hatred of the gaze hitting Peter full force. It occurs to him, that having Tarr in his flat might be dangerous in more than one way. He brushes the thought off like a repellent insect.

“I don't much like being reprimanded for what I didn't do.” Tarr says softly. “I particularly don't like getting blamed for what you did _willingly_ for Mr. Smiley.”

Peter stares at him. “As though you know anything about it.”

“I know plenty.” Tarr takes a sip of whiskey and smiles. “There's half an empty wardrobe, and a gap in the medicine cabinet...not to mention one or two shirts that are a size too large for you...Not to mention this.” He holds up a scrap of paper and Peter's stomach contracts.

He knows very well what's written there. _Sorry I was late, Peter. I promise to make it up to you tonight. -Richard._

“That doesn't prove anything.” He says stiffly.

Tarr raises an eyebrow. “Oh? Well, it wouldn't take them long to figure it out. What do you think they'd do with that sort of tip at,”

He never finishes the sentence because Peter's moved in, teeth set. His hands close on Tarr's collar, and it's precisely what Tarr's waited for. He tosses the glass, letting it shatter as he slams Peter up against the wall. His breath is hot on the back of Peter's neck. The proximity makes Peter fight all the harder. He has no desire to be this close to Tarr of all people. Tarr, however, is stronger than he looks. He hooks Peter in a tight grip, and spins him around.

“You think you're so much better than me. Smiley's just using you as he uses everybody.”

“Don't.” Peter struggles, but Tarr is definitely stronger than he looks. He has Peter trapped here in his own flat. The thought is infuriating.

“It's not personal.” Tarr says. “It's just what he does.” He presses Peter hard against the pale wallpaper of his sitting room. He's had time to think about this. He's not angry at Smiley specifically. His anger is reserved for the rest of the world, but Peter Guillam can certainly have a piece of it. Tarr punches him hard in the kidneys, watching the man he's called his superior for the last few years buckle and go to his knees with a groan.

Peter leans his head back against the wall, clutching at his stomach. Each breath he takes makes it worse. Tarr watches him impassively for a moment, then grabs him by the collar, hauling him to his feet.

“You want me to go to Paris.” He leans in close. “Don't you?”

Peter can barely breathe. “Yes.” He coughs. “That was the idea.” He wonders if Tarr plans to be difficult. What if he runs instead of cooperating, and Peter has to explain it to Smiley? The worry crawls up his spine, digging its claws in tight.

“What'll you do to ensure I go?” Tarr moves his hand up to rub the side of his thumb along Peter's jaw. It's almost a caress, except the look in his eyes makes Peter think the man is simply considering bruising him in a similar fashion.

“What do you mean?” Peter asks, though he has a fairly good idea of what Tarr wants already. There's always been a hint of insinuation in the man's actions toward him; and now that he knows what Peter has desperately tried to conceal from the Circus for the last five years...well, he was bound to be discovered. This was why Smiley had warned him in the first place. He'd just never thought it would be Tarr who found him out.

Tarr smiles then. “So you'll bend over for king and country, eh? To keep those very same people from knowing your...proclivities?”

Peter's jaw tightens. “What do you want, Tarr?”

“I want to fuck you,” Tarr says, pressing his thumb harder against Peter's jaw. “To remind you why you do what you do...”

“How is that,” Peter starts, but then Tarr slips his thumb inside his mouth. For a moment Peter's simply frozen as Tarr's thumb rubs over his tongue, and then he simply bites.

“Fuck!” Tarr yelps. He punches Peter hard with his free hand and withdraws his other. “You...”

“I do what I do because I choose to.” Peter states coldly. “Not for the Circus.”

“And Smiley?” Tarr waits...

“Smiley's...different.” Peter exhales softly. He knows it's a weak excuse, but if Tarr has any brains whatsoever he'll know what Peter means.

“And you'd do anything he told you to.”

“Not necessarily.”

“He told you to make sure I got to Paris, didn't he?” Tarr doesn't wait for a response this time. Instead he moves in until he's got Peter back up against the wall again. “So consider this part of his orders...you have to do whatever it takes to get me to Paris.”

“Suppose I just beat you to a bloody pulp and put you on a train myself?”

“You could try.” Tarr's grinning. “Or you could let me fuck you. Just once. And then I'll be a good little spy and go to Paris.” His fingers skimming down Peter's torso, stopping just at his belt.

Peter wants to laugh, wants to refuse...wants to break each and every one of those fingers. He closes his eyes for a moment, and takes a deep breath.

“All right.”

“Thought you'd never say.” Tarr breathes, as he leans in. He's busy undoing Peter's trousers, pushing them down. Peter watches him, halfway in a trance. He can't believe this is happening. Tarr's hands slide up his thighs. Tarr presses his mouth against Peter's neck, not quite a kiss.

“Turn around.”

Peter opens his mouth to refuse, and then he does it anyway, leaning his forehead against the wall and closing his eyes. Tarr just smirks.

“I'd ask where you kept your lubricant,” There's a hand on his ass, fingers slipping between his cheeks, cool and slick. “but I already found it.”

Peter grits his teeth. Tarr's invading his relationship; Peter doesn't care that it's over for all intents and purposes. It's his. It's private. He sucks in a breath as Tarr pushes further inside with his forefinger.

“Have you ever done this before?” Peter manages to ask casually.

“What do you think?” Tarr chuckles softly, curling his finger teasingly before adding another.

“I think you'd let anyone fuck you for a good tip.”

The fingers twist inside him brutally and he bites his lip to keep from crying out. Tarr fucks him with his fingers savagely for a few minutes, making Peter hiss.

Abruptly, Tarr pulls his fingers out. “You always look down on everyone, Mr. Guillam. It must be that public school education.” He undoes his own trousers quickly, taking out his cock. He slicks it liberally before pressing between Peter's cheeks.

Peter tenses as Tarr starts to push inside. He can't help it. Then, suddenly, Tarr's hand is on his cock, stroking Peter as he thrusts further in. This, Peter hadn't expected. He's not prepared for Tarr to touch him like this. Tarr strokes him expertly until he's buried inside him.

Tarr pauses, and Peter waits as they stand there in the silent flat. He can hear Tarr's breath behind him, feels Tarr's hand still on his cock, holding him...and then there's Tarr's own cock, filling him. Peter's being suffocated by the man.

Tarr tightens his grip on Peter and starts to move. He fucks him in time with his strokes, making Peter shudder helplessly with each steady movement. Peter can't contain a moan when Tarr's thumb starts rubbing tenderly at the tip of his cock.

“You like that.” Tarr's mouth is at the curve of his neck, kissing him, and somehow that's the most invasive thing he's done to Peter all night. He wants to pull away from it, throw the man off and make him leave...

Instead he turns his head, ignoring the discomfort of the angle and kisses Tarr hard.

Tarr's mild surprise is lost as Peter kisses him, tongue fucking Tarr as the man continues to move inside him. When Peter comes, his tongue is still entwined around Tarr's.

He breaks the kiss with a gasp as Tarr strokes his orgasm from him. Distantly, Peter realizes he'll have to clean the mess off the wall later. For now...he can only breathe one moment at a time, until the pleasure's faded.

Tarr's hand moves to his hip, fingers clenching at Peter's skin as he starts moving faster again. It doesn't take him more than a few more thrusts before he's spilling inside Peter.

_Another mess that will have to be cleaned up_ , Peter thinks. Somehow he thinks it will take more than a hot shower to erase Tarr's touch from his body.

The man lets out a slow, awkward breath and steps back, pulling out of Peter quickly.

Peter winces, despite his relief that the man is no longer touching him. He turns, half leaning against the wall as he drags his trousers back up. Tarr's already tucked himself away, fingers toying nervously with the buttons.

He looks up and meets Pete's gaze.

“It's not because you're...”

“Wasn't it?” Peter's voice is harsher than he intended.

Tarr shakes his head. “I couldn't give a fuck about that.” He runs a hand through his hair, looking at Peter with that same half-smile Peter's grown accustomed to. “You were right. I've fucked for information. I'm not ashamed of it. It's part of what I'm willing to do for the Circus.”

Peter's exhaustion is overwhelming him. He wants a shower. He wants to go to bed. He wants Ricki Tarr to stop talking and just leave him in peace. He also wants to know why.

“Why then?”

“You've always thought you were better than me.” Tarr says softly. “I wanted to remind you...Smiley needs me just as much as he needs you.”

Peter finds he has no proper reply to that. There's nothing to say, so he stays silent, and at last Tarr simply nods. “I'll contact you from Paris.”

Just like that he's gone.

In a moment Peter will get a shower started. He'll wash himself all over, unable to erase the bruises on his hips or the feel of Tarr inside him...or the touch of his lips. He will go to bed with the scene replaying in his mind until he falls asleep.

But for now he lets himself slide down to the floor and just lean his head back against the wall, not caring that he's leaning against his own mess or that his entire body aches. He's too tired to move yet. He wants this all to be over...Yet most of all he's so utterly and thoroughly relieved that Tarr didn't defect that it overwhelms him.

For the second time that week Peter Guillam lets himself sob in the solitude of his flat.

* * *

Ricki crosses the street and looks back at the window of Guillam's flat. The light is still on. He can't see the man from here. There's no hint of what he's doing. Ricki should move on with his plans; he needs to be in Paris by the morning.

Instead he stands there, watching the window.

He hadn't told Guillam the whole truth, but then he rarely did. It wasn't just the way Guillam had always lorded it over him. No, it was much more simple than that.

Ricki remembered the words he had said to Smiley, ' _She wasn't even my type,_ ' and wondered if the man had guessed then, but never said anything. He wondered again when Guillam had attacked him and Smiley had simply watched, observing them.

Ricki shooks his head, clearing his thoughts. It didn't matter. He'd go to Paris and do what the Circus wanted, and when that was done, he'd find Irina. He owed her that. He owes her, and he loves her, the guilt mixing with the emotion, tangled up in the lust that runs through him naturally.

It simply doesn't matter that when he licks his lips Ricki can still feel Guillam's mouth on his. At least, that's what Ricki tells himself as he turns and walks away.


End file.
